


Rectify

by gwennolmarie



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst, Character Death Fix, Fix-It, Gen, Heavy Angst, Illnesses, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Epilogue, Pre-Relationship, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, Sharing a Bed, Shaving, Suicidal Thoughts, but like, dubious medicine, dutch cries, like hell im lettin my cowpoke die, not yet, vandermorgan - Freeform, with a knife is possible but 9/10 dont recommend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-09-15 23:05:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16942425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwennolmarie/pseuds/gwennolmarie
Summary: Dutch snaps out of it, just in time.Update-7/10/19: on indefinite hiatus





	1. West

Dutch rounds the corner and stops.

He hears Micah run off, then he hears scraping on the dirt.

Ever slowly, Arthur crawls up next to him.

The boy’s so out of it he doesn’t even notice.

Arthur stops, flopping onto his back and Dutch stares.

Then he sees Arthur let out one big breath…

The intake doesn’t follow.

It’s like someone’s thrusted a pail of cold water over him and all his actions leading up to now chill him to the bone.

They feel thick running in droplets down his skin.

In actuality, it’s just a cold sweat but Dutch reckons at that moment had he looked down, he’d’ve seen blood dripping off his fingertips.

He crashes to his knees at Arthur’s head.

Hands searching and shaking.

There’s still a pulse and as Dutch had said before, it ain’t over yet.

This time, at this moment, the plan comes easy.

Dutch’s hands move almost without him thinking as he rummages through the slip pockets on his belt.

Medicine, meant for horses, but Dutch is desperate.

Numbers fuzz in his head and he does a rough calculation of Arthur’s weight compared to your average horse.

He draws that percentage of a dose into the syringe then grabs for Arthur’s still warm forearm, plunging the needle into the crook of his elbow.

He takes a shaky breath.

Injects the medicine.

He waits… and waits, but there’s no rise to Arthur’s chest.

Dutch yells and throws the little glass vial over the edge and hears it make an impact in a satisfying clatter.

The satisfaction doesn’t last long.

It’s replaced by confusion, disbelief, and then elation as he notes the faint, shaky rattle of Arthur, finally, breathing once again.

“Arthur! My boy,” Dutch trembles as he lifts Arthur up, the younger man struggling to regain awareness.

The ruckus of the Pinkertons gets closer and Dutch kicks into high gear, maneuvering Arthur’s just-about dead weight onto his shoulder.

He starts moving further around the corner where the footspace gets narrower and narrower.

Dutch’s boots are well-made but worn, any gription the soles once had long gone.

The gravel slips under him but he tries to pay it no mind, grappling the cliffside with one hand and holding onto Arthur for dear life with the other.

He couldn’t admit aloud which hand had the greater task, but the few times he slips violently... almost losing it?

His hold on Arthur isn’t the one that wavers.

As it grows lighter to the East he scrambles West.

It takes a while but he gets them down to the grassy valleys between rocky peaks.

Dutch carefully re-adjusts his boy then whistles, sharp and hard, saying a quick prayer.

Just a lick of luck was all they needed right now.

Only a scrap of something good, the glue to fix the puzzle pieces of Dutch’s plan in place.

A whinny in the distance brings tears of relief to Dutch’s eyes.

The Count breaks the horizon, throwing his head high and trotting to a halt at Dutch’s hest.

Dutch sets Arthur down out of the way as gently as possible, though the younger weakly groans anyway.

He works to untack The Count and lays everything on the grass.

Dutch settles his blanket on The Count’s back and then goes about condensing everything small they’d need into one saddlebag.

When he gets to the gun scabbards he hesitates, eyes Arthur, then the saddle.

Cursing, he tosses the saddle to the side, abandoning it outright.

He makes a noose from his lasso and feeds the long end through the loop after wrapping it around The Count, where the front cinch would normally go.

He tightens it as much as he can by sheer pull strength then pushes up against The Count for leverage, the horse snorts in objection but stays put.

Dutch knows he feels the heaviness in the air.

A series of complicated knots later and there’s no chance of the blanket sliding clean off under both of their weights.

Speaking of…

“Arthur.” Dutch prods the younger and gets him to sit up.

Arthur is shaking like it’s 40 below.

Dutch’s heart jumps.

“Arthur, I can’t do this alone... I’m afraid if I put you on your chest it’ll just make things worse.”

Arthur groans and his swollen eyelids peel open to let him stare at Dutch, blankly.

Dutch wonders if Arthur can even understand him in this state.

Ever surprising him, Arthur lifts his hands for assistance and Dutch takes hold with a fierce, if manic, grin.

“That’s my boy, Arthur, you’ve got this… We. _We’ve_ got this.”

Arthur steadies on his feet and coughs softly, having the sense to at least turn his head.

And just that stills Dutch’s heart once more.

It’s a sign, probably unconscious, but... had it been that Arthur would damn him completely?

Surely he wouldn’t bother to spare him the chance of getting sick.

Dutch comes to the realization, as he’s getting Arthur up onto The Count, that for the first time in a decade Arthur is _smaller_ than himself.

Lighter by at least thirty pounds and Dutch curses himself for not noticing.

The younger man is nearer as slight as the runt he and Hosea picked up all those years ago.

The thought of Hosea is a twist to the dagger in his heart, forcing more repressed emotions to leak.

Dutch just hopes he didn’t overdose Arthur.

Dutch sniffs, spits, and swings himself up onto The Count, between Arthur, in the front, and the saddle bag, in the back.

Arthur is leaning forward slightly but he’s holding himself up, one hand tangled in The Count’s mane, the other loosely holding the reins.

Dutch settles and reaches around to brace Arthur’s stomach, hard and flat, not the little softness he was used to seeing.

Arthur tenses for a moment then settles, sitting up a bit straighter, legs tightening as he falls into posture.

Even as far gone as Arthur is, Dutch sees him petting The Count, murmuring reassurance.

“You ready?” Arthur asks in the scratchiest damn voice Dutch has even heard, he still smiles to hear it.

“Let’s ride, Arthur.”

They set off, not at full speed, taking the loose stones and dewy grass with caution, cautious haste.

Dutch realizes he never said where he wanted them to go, and yet Arthur was heading in just the right direction.

Then again, Pinkertons were coming from the South and East.

Too far North was unknown territory.

So, West it was.

And West?

They went.

 


	2. Yet

By evening, they’re almost through the Cumberland Forest.

It’s been quiet… and Dutch isn’t sure if it’s better or worse than talking.

He’s been… reflecting.

He wishes he didn’t have the capability.

Dutch wishes for a lot of things.

“Woahh,” Arthur says and pulls up on The Count’s reins.

Dutch peers around him, looking for the cause of their stopping.

“What’s wrong?” Dutch asks softly.

“Dutch,” Arthur laughs hoarsely, “Everything.”

Dutch closes his eyes and squeezes the front of Arthur’s shirt for a moment.

He opens his eyes to Arthur’s head turned, eyes alight with anger, but also exhaustion.

“That’s fair… I meant why are we stopped? We need to get you to a doctor.”

“I just need _rest_.” Arthur’s face twists a bit and the younger man looks away, into the trees on either side of the path.

They’re off the main road, on an old, overgrown trail, a dixie highway, Dutch thinks.

Arthur suddenly jerks The Count off the trail and into the thick.

Going north.

The Count snorts and quick foots in protest.

Dutch trusts Arthur, like he should’ve all along.

“You’re fine,” Arthur mutters at The Count, “Just a little ways longer.”

They head north and, after a little while, hit a river, Arthur riding them alongside it to a narrow section where they can cross.

As they climb up onto the other bank Dutch sees the little cabin.

It’s eerie in a way that makes his fingers twitch for his gun.

Arthur must feel something from Dutch as he brings the Count to a halt a few feet from the door.

“I’ve been here before. There’re some bodies inside…” Arthur says.

Waits as Dutch slips from The Count’s back.

The elder lingers to see if Arthur needs assistance.

He does.

Dutch steadies his boy and helps him to the cabin, where the younger holds the door open.

Or lets the door hold him up.

Dutch makes quick work of the bodies, carrying them one at a time into the woods, far enough that whatever comes to savage the remains doesn’t bother them.

His shoulders are stained through his white button-down.

He comes up to Arthur unloading their things.

What little they have left.

What Dutch has left.

Arthur being with him more than makes up for the needless things lost.

The returned clarity in his mind helps to make up for the objects, gone to fire, the ocean or compromised safety.

‘It’ll all be worth it, if he forgives me.’ Dutch thinks, though the thought pings around his chest like a stray bullet.

Leaving gushing, cavernous tunnels in his soul.

Feelings instead of blood.

Feelings he shoves down to help Arthur.

He gets the younger man inside, ignoring grumbled protests, and sits him on a rickety old chair.

There’s a dirty plate on the table.

Dutch strips the cot and flips the mattress.

Heads to The Count.

Gets him hitched to a tree, and returns with his blanket and bedroll.

He layers the bedroll on the mattress and spreads the blanket out.

Stepping back to check on Arthur, who’s awake, but barely.

The older man starts clearing the trash and other useless shit out, piling it behind the house, out of sight from any who might wander past.

He untacks The Count, takes most of it inside but fashions the rope into a leash of sorts, so the horse can graze but not run off.

Though Dutch has his doubts, with how loyal the beast has been.

Better safe than sorry.

Arthur’s managed to climb into the bed, back to Dutch, chest pressed flush with the cabin wall.

Dutch sees the jacket and holsters on the floor and moves them to hang on a couple hooks he finds.

He strips his waistcoat and button down but shoves the ruined things into the cold stove.

He’ll burn it all tomorrow.

He’ll do it all tomorrow.

Right now they’re safe and out of the elements.

The Count is damn dirty enough he doesn’t even look white, unrecognizable.

They need sleep.

Dutch glances between the bloody floor and where Arthur had obviously made room for the older man.

He slips his boots and holster, tossing them with Arthur’s after setting the guns on the side table.

They’ve shared beds before.

Not for a long while, but plenty of times when Arthur was younger.

Even just a few years back, after Eliza and their boy had…

Arthur would slip into his tent and lay on the ground next to Dutch’s bedroll.

Wanting comfort and not knowing when or how to ask.

Dutch never minded when, like a pair of magnets, they’d end up together at night, limbs entangled, only for Arthur to be gone by the time he woke.

When Molly…

And there’s another life on his hands.

If Arthur was right, and Dutch suspected he was after recalling everything, she was another innocent Dutch had felled, if not by his own gun, by his law.

When Dutch had taken in Molly, and the two had started sharing a bed, and Molly had demanded a damned bed, Arthur hardly entered his tent at all.

Not even to talk to Dutch.

He realizes now he blindly threw away something… something almost sacred.

Where, or if, Arthur got comfort in the time since…

Dutch climbs carefully onto the cot, Arthur tensing.

Dutch wants to hold his boy, wants to soothe him.

Arthur’s coughing hadn’t returned full force, just a muffled hacking behind tightly pressed lips, but once Dutch is settled, the blanket over them both, he hears the rattle with Arthur’s every inhale.

Dutch says a mental ‘fuck it all’ and pulls Arthur back against him, so they’re in the middle of the cot and not towering at either edge.

Arthur’s breath hitches then the younger rumbles as he pays the consequence of the sharp breath.

“I-”

“Shut it, Dutch,” Arthur growls.

“Arthur…”

“No,” Arthur clears his throat and even the sound is painful to Dutch.

“We can’t… Arthur we can’t.”

“ _You_ can’t. I damn well can.”

The resignation in his boy’s voice spurs Dutch into manhandling Arthur ‘til the younger is facing him.

Arthur glares then looks pointedly over his leader’s shoulder.

If Dutch can even be called a ‘leader’ any longer.

“You listen to me, Arthur Morgan, we’re getting the hell out of here, out of all this mess I’ve caused. All the people-” and here Dutch’s voice cracks, hard.

His eyes burn and he watches Arthur jut out his lower jaw, eyes barely flicking to Dutch’s, before breaking away again.

“All the hurt,” Dutch says, hushed, “Every fucking misstep I’ve made. You don’t… The way I feel right now…”

“Dutch,” Arthur starts to interrupt but Dutch silences him, one hand over the younger’s mouth.

He can practically read the feral temptation to bite in Arthur’s eyes as his boy finally meets his gaze.

When he’s sure Arthur won’t try to interrupt again his hand moves to cup one side of the stubble laden jaw.

It’s more prominent with Arthur’s withering.

The reminder of his neglect drives the dagger further into his heart.

“I ain’t giving up,” Dutch whispers, voice thick with choked tears, “Until you are safe and well, on a ranch in California, with not a worry in the whole _goddamn_ world.”

Arthur’s brows furrow but the younger turns into the hand holding his face.

Dutch feels relief for a second until-

“I ain’t forgivin’ you,” Arthur murmurs firmly, tiredly, and closes his reddened and yellowed eyes.

Dutch’s dam finally gives and tears of guilt, frustration and sorrow leak down his face.

He angrily wipes at them with his free hand.

“Yet,” Arthur murmurs prior to letting out a vibrating breath Dutch thinks might be a snore.

That one word festers a hope in his heart he knows he don’t deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @themeanox on spotify there's a playlist I've made to listen to while writing this  
> @gwennolmarie on tumblr and insta
> 
> come yell or throw ideas at me  
> if you read the chapter title as 'yeet' i don't blame you  
> They're at Dodd's bluff if yer curious


	3. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He sits opposite Arthur. 
> 
> Observes his fractured reflection. 
> 
> He’s lucky he sharpened his knife not that many days ago. 
> 
> He slips the stiletto blade from its leather sheath and brings it to his face. "

Dutch wakes to Arthur tangled with him, as expected.

His forehead is pressed to Dutch’s collarbone, arm slung around the older man’s waist, and his other wrapped around himself.

Dutch sighs, content in the moment. Spends the quiet hours of the morning studying the changes of Arthur’s face he’s been too in his own head to notice.

Deeper, darker circles under the tightly shut eyes.

The hollows under his cheeks and in his temples… quite a bit more pronounced.

The broken blood vessels, Dutch thinks are from coughing.

The splits in his dry-as-the-desert lips.

Dutch frets a hand over the side of the younger man’s face, feels his own expression pull taught with anguish.

Guilt.

He presses a soft kiss to Arthur’s overly warm forehead.

It wakes him.

Arthur groans and lifts his head, bleary-eyed as he peers up at Dutch.

“Dutch…” Arthur murmurs, confused at first, then gradually his expression goes icy.

Blank and cold.

Dutch feels the prickling of gooseflesh on his arms.

Arthur lets out a noisy breath, a heavy, put-upon sigh.

Dutch waits, but Arthur doesn’t make to get up, or push him away, and instead lowers his head to rest on the bedroll.

Temple barely touching Dutch’s bare shoulder.

They’ll have to go into town, Dutch knows.

But, it’s damn-near a given that their faces’ll be plastered on wanted posters all through New Hanover.

All through the surrounding settlements, too.

“We should get up,” Dutch murmurs.

“S’tha’time?” Arthur grumbles.

Dutch glances to the nightstand but his chain, with his pocket watch, locket and matchbox…

Isn’t there.

He sits up, jostling Arthur, who grumbles and reluctantly retracts his limbs, allowing Dutch to get up and start searching.

It takes a few minutes before yesterday evening clarifies in his mind.

The stove.

He retrieves the bundle of fabric and carefully pulls it apart but the damage has been done.

The chain is split into pieces.

Dutch feels his lips pull into a tight frown, angry at his carelessness.

One of his last possessions.

Ruined. Another thing destroyed by his lack of minding.

“Whatcha gonna do with it?” Arthur asks quietly from where he’s sat up.

“I… I dunno, shove it in the bottom of a bag and ne’er see it again?” Dutch poses, spitefully, “I’ll probably just lose the important bits if I try an’ keep ‘em in my pockets without the chain.”

Arthur wheezes with the effort of standing, Dutch watches him carefully.

Mindful, now, that he might need help.

Aware that there ain’t a chance in hell Arthur’ll ask for it.

“Can I have it? Might be… able to make something from it,” Arthur says, and Dutch finds it an odd request, but hands over the pieces anyway.

  
Anything for his boy.

Anything to increase the chances of getting that forgiveness.

Preferably before someone shoots him for the bounty on his head.

Shoots either of them.

Arthur nods his thanks and moves to stow the pieces in the inner pocket of his jacket.

Dutch throws the shirt and vest back into the stove and shuts it.

Maybe a little too hard.

Can see Arthur watching him carefully from where he’s taken a seat at the little table.

Dutch starts going through every drawer and box in the cabin.

Finds clothes that’ll hang off Arthur and barely button over his own chest and stacks them in two piles on the bed.

He brings his knife out, sets it on the table with an old pair of scissors he found, and a broken mirror.

He sits opposite Arthur.

Observes his fractured reflection.

He’s lucky he sharpened his knife not that many days ago.

He slips the stiletto blade from its leather sheath and brings it to his face.

Ignores Arthur, who’s watching intensely.

It takes him a moment to find the right angle.

Unnerving scraping fills the silence between them.

In a dozen passes the hair under his lower lip is gone.

The hair above his mouth follows.

He tries to tidy up the stubble on the rest of his face, only nicks himself three times.

Walks out of the cabin with his knife in hand and blood dripping down his neck.

Cleans his face in the river and gets his hair dripping.

Rings out the most of it.

Comes back and uses the dodgy mirror to trim his sideburns flush.

Realizes Arthur’s staring.

“What? You know as well as I do…” Dutch sighs, “Son, our faces are plastered all ‘round these parts.”

“I know,” Arthur assures him.

“Well,” Dutch gestures to Arthur’s grown out hair and beard, “You’re next.”

As he says this he’s awkwardly twisted to the side, both arms behind his head as he chops off the curls his hair has grown into.

The shears aren’t as sharp as they should be for a job like this, and each lock of hair takes several snips.

He cuts it close at the nape and leaves the length around his crown.

When he looks up again his heartbeat flickers.

Or at least feels like it does.

Arthur isn’t quite _smiling_ , but there’s a sure amusement in his gaze as he watches Dutch.

Dutch rolls his eyes, to try and mask his relief at seeing his boy in better spirits.

In the end, the cut is rough, but it’s gotten the job done.

He looks nothing like the pictures they’ll have of him.

“Ya look...” Arthur starts, quietly.

“Hm?” Dutch says as he brushes the ringlets off his lap, onto the floor.

  
“Like ya did. Long time ago,” Arthur finishes the thought, though his jaw is cocked to one side like he’s physically holding back words.

He’s still staring.

Still amused.

Dutch stands and rearranges the mirror so Arthur can see what he’s doing as he pinches the first lock of Arthur’s hair.

Watches if fall to the table as the scissors ‘snick’.

Arthur no longer looks amused.

Dutch tries _a hundred_ times harder to make Arthur’s hair even, cutting it similar to his own.

Long in front, short at the nape.

When he’s done he sweeps Arthur’s hair back, running his fingers through it to get it to lay the way he envisions.

A stubborn forelock hangs in the younger man’s face.

Dutch sets the scissors down and picks up his knife.

Sees Arthur barely tense.

Dutch moves slower, hoping Arthur can see and feel comfortable anticipating his every move.

The older man lifts Arthur’s chin with the side of a curled index finger.

Arthur swallows against the stretch of his neck, closes his eyes.

Dutch desperately wants to be a fly on the wall in his boy’s mind.

He, again, is more careful with Arthur.

Takes his time unveiling the skin underneath, wipes the knife off between each stroke to limit the chances of slipping.

When he’s done he can’t resist ghosting knuckles over the reddened skin, under the guise of checking for missed hairs.

He steps back.

Then away.

Finds the handbroom he’d spotted earlier and starts sweeping the remains of their pasts out, over the threshold.

Watches the mess be picked up and carried away by the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> press f for Dutch's stache and soul patch


	4. Strawberry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are unbelievable,” Arthur grumbles. 
> 
> “I’m sorry? Are you hiding a hundred-thirty dollars in one of them pockets?”
> 
> “We could have found another way,” Arthur insists, “We can’t keep hurtin’ people, Dutch. That’s exactly what got us into this mess!”

Arthur has his eyes closed, when Dutch turns to face the interior of the cabin.

The younger man’s leaning back in the chair, his own hand cupping his jaw.

Rubbing the irritated skin.

“Come on,” Dutch says, holding the door open.

Arthur slowly opens his eyes to look at the older man.

Dutch feels frozen, when those tired, blue eyes meet his.

Powerless.

Arthur looks like _he_ feels powerless.

Dutch adds that pound of blame to the growing weight on his shoulders.

“What _is_ it?” Dutch asks softly.

“Tuberculosis,” Arthur says.

“Oh, Arthur,” Dutch whispers.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be done, Dutch,” Arthur clears his throat and sits up, “My time’s coming.”

The younger man looks fierce, suddenly.

“Almost came, already, had it not been for you,” Arthur says.

Dutch can’t…

He can’t decipher the tone.

Betrayed?

Resentful?

“Did you… Want to?” Dutch steps into the cabin.

Lets the door swing shut.

Arthur doesn’t respond.

Clenches his jaw and looks down at the table.

“Arthur, Son, did you want to die?” Dutch asks, a touch frantic, “Do you still?”

“Dutch, I’ve longed for death for a good chunk o’ my life,” Arthur says quietly.

Still looking down at the table.

Dutch gets it, in a way.

He’s thought about it, himself.

The Biggest Sin.

Dutch swallows, throat feeling too small.

“How… You never mentioned it,” Dutch says.

“I did,” Arthur grits out, “Actually, I _did_. Everyone thought I was kiddin’. Thought I was exaggeratin’’.”

“I didn’t…” Dutch presses his lips together.

Turns away and re-opens the door.

“Come on,” he reiterates.

\--

“Dutch, we ain’t gonna get far without money…” Arthur says as they’re building the fire to burn their old, bloody clothes and the trash from the house.

“Well, we sure-as-shit can’t go back and get what we had,” Dutch mutters.

The both of them step back.

“Neither Blackwater nor Beaver Hollow,” The older man says resolutely.

Arthur strikes a match on his boot-heel and throws it into the bunch of cattail-fluff under the branches.

“There’s some cut-wood under the stove inside,” Arthur says.

Dutch retrieves it, and the clothes he’d angrily stuffed into the firebox.

“What’d you suggest we do, then?” Dutch asks as he sets up the logs in a trilateral pyramid.

Watches the fire spread over the grain of the bark-stripped wood.

“I dunno…” Arthur admits.

“Well, we need to get you to that doctor, in Valentine,” Dutch says firmly.

Absolutely no room for objection from Arthur.

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest.

Can feel his own ribs through the too-big shirt, no flesh left to conceal them.

He sighs.

“They can’t do shit, Dutch, I already saw a doctor.”

“And what’d he say?”

“Just to get somewhere warm n’ dry and… and ride it out.”

“We’ll figure somethin’ out, Art,” Dutch says and comes closer to squeeze Arthur’s upper arm, “We’ll get you to that dry place.”

\--

Dutch retacks the count.

They ride into Valentine.

Arthur behind Dutch this time.

The younger keeps his hands loose at Dutch’s hips.

Each man has a knife stashed on their person, but their guns are shoved into the saddlebags, or tucked beneath the bedroll.

“In case we need ‘em quickly,” Dutch had said.

It goes fairly smooth, at first.

No one recognizes them.

They hitch The Count near the doctor’s office.

Dutch holds the door open for Arthur.

Dutch has a hand guiding Arthur through the threshold.

Momentarily holding him in place.

Arthur doesn’t see Dutch peer around the office, listen closely, and then lock the door behind them.

The doctor stands behind the counter.

“Can I help you fellers?” He asks

“Need a consult, for my friend here, he’s got an awful cough,” Dutch smiles, infuses his voice with all the charm in his repertoire, “Stubborn man, wouldn’t come in until I promised I’d stay with him.”

“Follow me,” The doctor says.

Heads to the door leading to the examination room.

“Thank you,” Dutch says and turns to Arthur.

Jerks his head for Arthur to go in front.

They pile into the examination room.

Dutch can hear some people in the way back, through a heavy door.

He hopes they won’t interfere.

“Please, take a seat,” The doctor says.

Gestures to the patient’s chair in the corner.

“So, what exactly is the problem? Can you describe the cough in detail? Is there blood? Phlegm?”

“It’s tuberculosis,” Arthur stumbles over the pronunciation as he sits.

The doctor frowns at him.

“You’ve already been diagnosed?”

“Another doc’, in Saint-Denis,” Arthur says.

“Then you must know, there isn’t much that can be done,” The doctor says.

“Isn’t _much_?” Dutch zeroes in on the doctor.

He comes to stand next to Arthur.

“That mean there’s _somethin_ ’?” Dutch asks.

“There… There are experimental therapies. We got some medicine in recently that can slow the progression of the disease,” The doctor shifts to the cabinet in the room.

Rummages through tins and bottles.

Returns with a small glass vial and a glass pipette.

“It’s expensive, however, and you can only take it for a few months,” The doctor edges, “It’s not a cure, it’s only meant to extend… The time you have left.”

“How much does it cost?” Dutch asks.

Arthur doesn’t like the resolute tone of the older man’s voice.

As though Dutch is asking as a courtesy.

And not a need for knowing.

Arthur tenses slightly in the chair.

“One-hundred thirty dollars,” The doctor says.

“If it isn’t too bold, can you share why it’s so much?” Dutch asks and steps slightly away from Arthur.

Towards the doctor.

“It is, as mentioned before, an experimental therapy, the price is what I paid for it, plus a small charge,” The doctor makes a broad gesture to the greater of the room, “This is a business, not a charity.”

“Of course,” Dutch says, “You mentioned _therapies_? As in multiple?”

“Yes,” The doctor turns to address Arthur, “As you may have been recommended, the best therapy for this disease is a dry and warm climate. West. There’s a doctor, Erning? In San Fransisco.”

“And what’s this doctor got to help me?” Arthur asks thickly.

Trying desperately not to cough.

“He’s in the process of developing a medicine to fight the disease on a microscopic level,” The doctor says.

Then considers the bottle in his hand.

“Do you have the funds for this?” The doctor asks.

Dutch moves faster than Arthur can blink.

The younger man hadn’t noticed Dutch slipping his knife from the concealed sheath in the back of his belt.

The butt end cracks into the doctor’s temple.

Dutch reaches and nimbly catches the vial and dropper before the man hits the ground.

“Dutch!” Arthur hisses.

Stands up and becomes aware of the cold-sweat clinging to his back.

The nape of his neck.

“There should be something for your fever, in there,” Dutch gestures to the medicine cabinet.

The older man ducks out of the examination room into the main part of the building.

Arthur curses and coughs.

Pounds at his own chest.

He finds the fever-reducer and stuffs it into his jacket pocket with the broken chain.

Follows after Dutch with one last glance at the unconscious man.

Wishes he had even a couple dollars to leave with the man.

He gave everything he had to John.

Dutch is leaning against the wall next to the front door.

“You good?” The older man asks.

Arthur scoffs.

“You are _unbelievable_ ,” Arthur grumbles.

“I’m sorry? Are you hiding a hundred-thirty dollars in one of them pockets?”

“We could have found another way,” Arthur insists, “We can’t keep hurtin’ people, Dutch. That’s exactly what got us into this mess!”

Dutch goes quiet.

Then unlocks the door and walks out casually.

As though he was nothing more than a patron of the doctor.

Arthur rubs a hand roughly down his weary face.

Follows.

Dutch gestures subtly to a horse hitched a little-ways down the road.

Stows the medicine in the saddlebags on The Count and swings himself up.

Arthur mentally throws every insult he can think of at the older man and approaches the mare.

Soothes her quickly before stepping in the stirrup and hoisting himself on.

The mare doesn’t protest.

Arthur goes to lead her by the reins and sees the bit when the mare’s head turns by his encouragement.

Sees the dried blood at the corners of the horse's lips.

Eases up on the reins and stares for a moment at the monstrous contraption.

“What kinda fool…?” Arthur trails off.

Mentally vows to change it for a softer bit as soon as possible then gears the mare after Dutch.

He rides slightly behind Dutch and to the side, in case The Count decides he doesn’t like Arthur’s new horse.

Once they’re on the outskirts of the town, Arthur speaks up.

“We really can’t keep doin’ that, Dutch.”

“I know,” The older man says back, “But, where are we gonna get the money we need?”

“I think…” Arthur swallows and rubs his face again, “I think I know a man who can help.”

“Where’s he at?” Dutch asks, turns to look over his shoulder at his boy.

“Strawberry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's fairly easy to guess who but go wild


End file.
